Message
I have this wild-crazy combination of friends. A few of them, like Madame Monotone (known to most as Mary Susan), are quite predictable and bring a sense of stability to my gypsy-like life. Most of them, however, like Sarah, are wonderfully spontaneous and make life a spectacularly vivid adventure. Each of them has brought something unique to my table of community, and I’ve gleaned innumerable lessons from these beautiful souls. A few people in particular have stood out to me, and over the next while I'm going to highlight them here on LJ (or if you're reading the feed on Facebook, then...well, you get the picture).
One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned from Sarah, my best friend from college, is how to hear--truly hear--music. Before we became friends, I couldn’t tell the difference between an upright bass and a tuba (granted, seeing them is one thing, while hearing is another); I had no idea what a djembe, a didgeredoo, or a sitar were; and I didn’t have the slightest idea of how to use a capo. Music (and capes, but that’s another story entirely), was one of the first things we had in common.
I used to hear music as a whole unit. To me, a song was either good or bad, and there was no in-between. But when you become good friends with someone who can play just about any instrument she lays her hands on (I’ve watched her pick up a shofar for the first time and find all six pitches--a nearly impossible feat, especially for a beginner--within minutes, and proceed to play along with the piano), music becomes more complicated…and more meaningful.
Case in point: Last year I burned a copy of Coldplay’s X & Y album from a roommate. I’ve been a fan since…well, since Sarah introduced me four years ago, and I’d heard this album was quite good. However, I was disappointed when I first played it. It all sounded the same to me.
I visited Sarah a few weeks later and told her how disappointed I was with X & Y. She was surprised.
“It’s like an epic, which is what makes it so cool. Maybe you just haven’t heard it right,” she said to me.
I gave it another shot and we put it into my less-than-satisfactory car CD player. She had a particular song to show me.
In the right people’s hands, music can come alive--it can flesh out into an all-sensory experience. This is why music--good, real, deep, feeling, alive music--must not merely be played, but shown.
My car’s system wasn’t doing the trick, so we played it in her stereo when we got back to her house. She played track number 8, “Message,” for me and pointed out a few things she noticed (an interesting thing about her is that she sometimes plays an entire song only to hear a particular portion of it…I’ve even watched her ask her dad to be quiet in mid-conversation so she could hear a small portion of a song). J I was directed to listen to a particular drum performance in the song. It was so subdued, I would never have noticed it had she not pointed it out. The drums pounded out what seemed to be the heartbeat of the song. I finally heard it.
I’m an English teacher, so part of my job is to teach my students how to take a piece of literature, pick out its parts, and then discover how each of those parts contribute to the whole work of art. One tiny word choice can change the entire meaning of a story or bring flesh to a skeleton page. For example, what if Homer’s cyrens (spelling?) were called mermaids, or just maidens? Our association with the name and the women’s potency would likely be entirely different.
The same goes with music, as I’ve learned from Sarah. A small portion of drumming can contribute to turning a CD into an epic, if the listener has ears to hear. And if you listen closely, you will be able to pick out the difference between an upright bass and a tuba, or a djembe and the bongos. You’ll hear how small parts, when combined, make the whole a masterpiece. Maybe, just maybe in that process, you might find a heartbeat of your own. And maybe then you will hear the epic your life is becoming.